


A Different Kind of Extraordinary

by drayton



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, Gen, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drayton/pseuds/drayton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Augusta used to think of Neville as a disappointment, but even an old witch can learn new spells.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



“Behind you!”

Augusta whirled to fire a curse at a werewolf before pivoting back to attack the Death Eater in front of her. Her first moments in the battle had been unsettling, but she’d quickly relaxed into long-practiced movements she’d hoped never to need again. “Thank you, Horace,” she said breathlessly, as she turned again to finish off the werewolf.

Horace was the vulture on her hat.

  


Long ago, when she’d been a gawky long-legged third-year named Dalrymple, the boy who sat behind her in History of Magic had given her a hair clasp.

“It’s charmed,” he said shyly. “When you wear it, you’ll be able to see me. If you whisper very softly, we’ll even be able to hear each other, although no one else will. See? I’ve charmed this tie pin for myself. It’ll be our secret.”

She liked Edgar a good deal more than Professor Binns, so she took the hair clasp and wore it every day. As Edgar’s skill at Charms progressed, he made refinements to the clasp until Augusta felt she had eyes in the back of her head.

One day during her sixth year at Hogwarts, she was practicing a tricky assignment in Transfiguration when she experienced the tingling sensation that meant, “Duck!”

She promptly ducked, narrowly avoiding a jet of flame coming from the desk behind her.

“Mr. Lockhart, your assignment was to change a candle into a dragonfly,” Professor Dumbledore said with amusement, while casually transforming a tiny dragon back into a lit candle. “Please try again, and think ‘insect’ a bit more strongly. Miss Dalrymple, a word with you after class.”

Augusta had been unable to concentrate on her transfiguration after that, and was almost relieved when her classmates were finally dismissed for lunch.

“Your reflexes are exemplary, Miss Dalrymple,” Dumbledore said gently, after the other students had gone. “Given your skill in dueling, you would do well to consider a career as an Auror, although that would require a considerable amount of remedial work in Charms. Tell me, is the perception charm on your robes or your book bag? Or perhaps that hair clasp you wear with such devotion?”

“It’s the clasp,” she admitted, feeling alarmed. Was she in trouble? Was he going to confiscate it?

“Ah. If memory serves, you failed to pass your O.W.L. in Charms last year, although Mr. Longbottom received an E? How long ago did he gift you with his work?”

“Almost three years,” she mumbled, feeling as if her cheeks were on fire.

“Three years,” Dumbledore echoed. “And I have heard no reports to indicate you’ve misused his handiwork. Indeed, until today, I was unaware you possessed it.”

“It was a secret,” Augusta said, feeling wretched. Dumbledore _was_ going to take it, and the whole school would probably find out. That horrible Parkinson girl would be even more insufferable than usual.

“A secret. Only between Mr. Longbottom and yourself?”

She nodded.

“You’ve done well, then, to keep such a secret all this time.”

Augusta gave Dumbledore a puzzled look. His eyes were twinkling, yet there was something sad about his expression.

“Mr. Longbottom has been a good friend to you… or shall I say more than a friend? Continue keeping your secret. It might serve as good practice for another time, when you’ll need to protect something far more precious than a hair clasp.”

She and Edgar had married a few years after leaving Hogwarts. Although he’d charmed many objects for her, Horace became her constant companion.

“But it’s so ugly,” she protested, the first time he showed her the hat. He’d presented it as a gift after the birth of their first child.

“Exactly,” he said. “It’s the sort of ghastly thing a pureblood witch from an old family would wear. It’s respectable. It’s boring. It’s forgettable.”

“I don’t think anyone’s likely to forget _that_ ,” she said dubiously.

“Trust me. If you wear it regularly when you go out, in less than a year, people will expect to see you wearing it, and then they’ll forget it’s there. It can see in all directions, and I’ve charmed it to speak to you, although others won’t be able to hear it. It will be there when I can’t.”

  


“Behind that statue!”

She fired off another curse reflexively. Where was Neville? What if the Death Eaters had gotten to him? She struggled to concentrate, but a part of her mind flicked back to memories better not revisited.

The world had been full of dark wizards long before anyone called them Death Eaters. She’d lost a brother and two cousins to them, and Edgar had narrowly survived a curse that left him impotent. Although she’d never become an Auror, she and Edgar had practiced dueling constantly, determined to protect their only child, Frank.

Frank had grown up to be tall and strong and brave, just like his father. He’d become an Auror, married Alice, and given Augusta a grandchild. And then, one blustery night, Dumbledore had come in person to deliver the terrible news: Frank and Alice had been tortured by Death Eaters and were not expected to recover.

Augusta had found herself sitting down very suddenly, her face crumpled with grief. “Where’s Neville?”

“He is also being treated at St. Mungo’s.”

“Treated?” Edgar said. “They tortured a baby?”

Dumbledore replied with deliberate calm. “It is not clear what transpired. There are no signs of obvious physical trauma, but young Neville must have witnessed the attack. What we do know is that one of the final spells performed with Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand was _Obliviate_. Presumably, she’d hoped to escape after wiping her victims’ memories...”

“So Neville might not remember?” Augusta asked.

Dumbledore’s expression became solemn. “Madame Lestrange’s skill with a wand, much like herself, has a tendency to be erratic. The precise impact of her spellwork has not yet been determined.”

“You’re trying to tell us Neville is damaged,” Edgar said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Bear in mind that a child that young could recover from such damage far more easily than an adult wizard.”

  


But Neville had not recovered, not fully. The boisterous baby she remembered had become quiet and watchful. As the years passed, Augusta looked for some sign of improvement in Frank and Alice, but that seemed as unlikely as seeing Neville perform magic. Her relatives began to openly speculate that he was a Squib. At one point, she'd even considered writing to Hogwarts to ask whether Neville’s name was listed in the book of magical children, but had stopped herself when she realized it was pointless: even if Neville had been born with magic, he might have lost it in the attack.

Neville was as he was. It was bitterly disappointing that Frank’s only child should be anything less than extraordinary, but unpleasant facts could not be evaded. She was nothing if not courageous.

And then Neville bounced, and all of her long-dead hopes for a grandson who’d live up to his father’s promise reignited. She’d sent him off to Hogwarts with high expectations and Frank’s wand, and tried not to worry about how shy and forgetful he was. After all, his Great-Uncle Algie had been a late bloomer. Surely Neville would come into his own, given time?

As she fought her way through the chaos of the battle, Augusta conceded that timid Neville had managed to surprise her. He’d befriended The Boy Who Lived, without letting that distinction go to his head, and had begun to stand up for himself. He’d confronted his friends, and that Malfoy brat and his thuggish hangers-on.

Once, he’d even stood up to her.

It had been the Christmas she’d discovered that Neville’s friends knew nothing about what had happened to his parents. “How could you?” she’d demanded, as soon as they returned from St. Mungo’s. “How could you fail to tell everyone about your parents’ sacrifice? Frank and Alice were heroes. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Of course not, Gran. I'm proud of Mum and Dad. I always have been.”

“Then why haven’t you told your friends about it?”

“Because I want people to see me as Neville, not as Bellatrix Lestrange’s victim.”

“People don’t...”

“People do. You do it, Gran. You do it every day. I’m not in a ward at St. Mungo’s, but you treat me like I’m damaged. I’m not an echo of my parents. For Merlin’s sake, can’t you just let me be Neville?”

At the time, she’d been taken aback by his response, and wondered how much she’d contributed to Neville’s low self-esteem and lackluster academic performance. Had she bullied him into incompetence?

Months later, she’d been stunned yet proud to learn that Neville had taken part in a forbidden group, learning Defense against the Dark Arts, and had faced fully-grown Death Eaters. No doubt she would have lost him that night if Dumbledore hadn’t arrived in time. _Neville_ _always stands up for what’s right, and he always loses_ , she thought with a sigh. _If only his ability matched his courage._

  


Voldemort’s voice boomed throughout the ruins of Hogwarts, promising leniency in exchange for Harry Potter. Augusta snorted with derision, yet struggled to suppress a frisson of fear. Where was Neville? Was he still alive?

While helping some students search the castle for wounded survivors, she learned that many of them had gone into hiding within Hogwarts, and that her Neville had been their leader. _My grandson, a leader_ , she thought. _Take that, Bellatrix._

Eventually, she made her way to the courtyard, looking considerably the worse for wear. Her clothing was torn and bloodied, although most of the blood was not her own. Horace was still firmly in place, thanks to Edgar’s diligence, but she felt twice as old as Griselda Marchbanks. _We’re going to lose_ , she thought. Curiously, that acknowledgment strengthened her resolve rather than weakening it. _There are things worth dying for. It’s a shame so many children will perish here today, but it would be a worse tragedy if they went Dark._

She spotted Neville just as Voldemort arrived to taunt them in person. _Oh, Neville. If I’d known you were going to live such a short time, I wouldn’t have pushed you so hard. I think perhaps I failed you._

And then Neville, alone of all of them, stepped forward, not to join Voldemort but to denounce him.  _He_ _always stands up for what’s right, and he always loses._ _No matter how painful it is to witness, it would be wrong_ _of me_ _to look away from such bravery._ _No need to dread carrying the burden of this memory. I’ll be dead in an hour, anyway._

The Sorting Hat was on Neville’s head, wreathed in flames. Augusta clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails drew blood, but she kept watching. And saw Neville draw Gryffindor’s sword from the hat to kill Voldemort’s giant snake with a sure, swift stroke.

She lost sight of Neville as the battle resumed. _Voldemort_ _seemed_ _afraid_ , she thought, as she matched wands with yet another Death Eater, fighting side by side with a burly boy wearing a Hufflepuff tie. _He could lose. He could lose!_

 _Where is Neville?_ she thought, as the conflict shifted towards the Great Hall. She fought down the temptation to look around for him. There would be enough time for that if she survived.

Suddenly, the fighting died away to a one-on-one duel between Harry and Voldemort. Before she could fully understand what Harry was saying about wands, Voldemort was dead and she was busy mopping up the fleeing remnant of Death Eaters.

Then, at long last, she caught sight of Neville again. He was thinner than the last time he’d been home, and he looked both haggard and triumphant. _He’ll collapse when the victory wears off. We all will. He looks dreadful._

Neville ran over to join her. “Gran!”

“Neville—your face.”

“Oh, that’s not from the battle,” he said, lightly touching a deep gash in his cheek. “It’s from before.”

“What in Merlin’s name has been happening at Hogwarts?”

“The same thing that’s been happening everywhere, Gran. Someone had to stand up to the Carrows, and purebloods were safe. Well, safer. Most of the time. Are you all right?” he asked, inspecting her anxiously.

“Of course. Horace has been looking out for me,” she said, gesturing at her hat.

“Hang on… your hat has a _name_?”

“Don’t be absurd, Neville; no one names hats. The vulture’s name is Horace.”

“The Sorting Hat has a name. And who names a stuffed vulture?”

“Well, obviously not the vulture. Don’t be impertinent. And don’t try to distract me when I have something important to say. You’ve done very well, Neville. I have absolutely no doubt that your parents would be pleased to see what sort of wizard you’ve become. There’s many who wouldn’t have had the courage to defy Voldemort to his face.”

Neville shrugged. “It’s nothing compared to what Harry did. Anyway, it’s only what Mum or Dad would have done.”

“You stand in no one’s shadow, Neville Longbottom. Just you remember that. And stand up straight. Heroes never slouch.”

“I’m a hero?” Neville said, looking both amused and disbelieving.

“Indeed you are, and I expect you to make a good job of it. You’re absolutely fearless, and I’m very proud of you.”

“You should be proud,” Neville said, grinning slowly. “I reckon I learned that from you.”


End file.
